yes to the bare bone branches of a cold November morning
yes to the sun just creeping o’er the hill
yes to the pale blue pastels of the sun streaked daybreak
yes to the clouds looming with the promise of the snow
yes to mud in the fields and mud in the boots and mud at the foot of all my clothesyes to the tips of my fingers going numb
yes to driving with gloves on
yes to drinking soup for a heat at lunchtime
yes to the robin waiting hungry by the door
yes to the blackbird crashing noisy in the undergrowth
yes to the berries glowing darkly in the hedgerows
yes to poppy blood remembrance on the days of aching cold
yes to the fog of impossible to see
yes to the call of the geese heading south
yes to the patterns on the nettles on the first full frost of winter
yes to the nights drawing in
yes to the wheel ever turning
yes to harsh cold winter implacably approaching
yes to the sun setting on the fields of Galloway and the sky lit up with gold
yes to mist softly draped round the church in the hollow
yes to the last patch of gold as the oak points skyward
yes to the grace of the trees stripped bare
yes to crows cawing in the silhouette of branches
yes to gothic imagination in the mist filled skies
yes to finger numbing bone aching cold of the mornings
yes to the days that swallow autumn
yes to the gold grey cold grey skies of
November